


One Quiet Night

by nhpw



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Alternate Universe - Croatoan/Endverse, Fluff and Angst, M/M, Recreational Drug Use
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-12-24
Updated: 2015-12-24
Packaged: 2018-05-08 23:14:22
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,962
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5516789
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/nhpw/pseuds/nhpw
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>It's the end of the world, but it's also Christmas, and Dean's in love.</p>
            </blockquote>





	One Quiet Night

**Author's Note:**

> For a picture prompt on Twitter: https://twitter.com/jensenanddmitri/status/679370834771877888 which said nothing about endverse, but my brain says I MAKE THIS SHIT LOOK HARD and it went there, so. This was the result.
> 
> Timeline-wise, I went on the assumption that Sam said "yes" to Lucifer in 2009, and since they were still fighting the croats 5 years later, the virus probably had a slow build, at least at first. This story is set in 2010. Given they're only about a year in, I took some liberties in assuming that in 2010 there's still a bit of normalcy existing in the world - electricity, news reports, and so forth. Basically, things are weird, but only the group at Camp Chitaugua knows the whole of it at this point. The rest of the world is still kind of panicky and clueless.
> 
> I also confess to googling "Camp Chitaugua" and apparently there is actually such a thing in upstate New York. 
> 
> Un-beta'd, so any mistakes are mine.
> 
> Merry Christmas!

The thing about Sam’s Big Yes was that it didn’t really change very much at first. For the world, anyway. For Dean, and the tattered remains of what used to be a family, it changed everything immediately, but once the initial shock of losing his brother faded, there was at first a remarkable calm.

Dean wasn’t stupid. This was some kind of calm before the storm. He’d seen it go down with his own eyes in that rundown room in Detroit. Lucifer was wearing Sam to the prom, and his baby brother was gone.

He started preparing for… well, he wasn’t sure for what, he guessed, but he knew he’d need the basics: Food, water, shelter. But more than that, he was preparing to mount a war against the Devil, and for that he’d need some kind of base camp, or something. And and the beginning of an army, if any of the people he trusted were still alive.

Bobby… wasn’t. He cried for hours, and was really glad no one was around to see him do that.

Oddly, he found Chuck and Castiel together back at Chuck’s ramshackle house. And this was how it would go, until the war really started, until others joined their ranks: drunk prophet, heartbroken hunter, fallen angel. That’s all that was left.

Croatoan started churning through at a snail’s pace in the spring of 2010 - just a few small towns in Michigan, one in Wisconsin, a couple in the Dakotas, but Dean and the others recognized it for what it was. They intervened as they were able, building up their ranks to a ragtag baker’s dozen before it became apparent that the group needed a place to hole up and rally their forces. They needed a safe house.

One of the New Kids - Jack or Joe or something - pointed them toward an abandoned sleepaway camp in upper New York. They had to fight a nest of croats for it, but in the end it was theirs, and Dean had shoved a flagpole into the ground in front of the largest building - a claim on the land in the name of Team Free Will.

“Hello Dean.”

“Hmm?” Dean rubbed a palm over his eyes and looked up from his position - stretched out across the lumpy mattress of the twin bed in his cabin, staring down at a picture he held in his hands. “Oh. Hey Cas.” And he sat up, folding the picture and shoving it roughly into his back right pocket. “What, ah. What can I do ya for?”

The angel raised his eyebrows and took a seat at Dean’s side, leaning forward with his hands folded and forearms on his knees and looking sidelong at his companion. Dean didn’t look at him at first, just let the angel’s eyes bore into his profile, but it went on so long that it started to squick him and he said, deadpan, “What, Cas?” and turned his head sharply to take in his companion.

In response, Castiel’s brow creased and he pressed his lips together in a firm line. “How are you doing, Dean?”

Dean raised his eyebrows and shook his head, incredulous. “How am I doing? How the hell do you think I’m doing?”

Castiel nodded and turned his head away, taking an extreme interest in studying his knitted fingers. “I don’t like not being able to see inside your head.”

And this comment, more than the first thing Cas had said, sent Dean’s brain into a tailspin.

But it was the  _ only  _ thing Cas said. Then the two sat in silence for a minute, and then Cas stood and exited Dean’s cabin without looking back.

Even in the seconds and minutes and hours following Sam’s… death, Dean had never felt so profoundly alone.

***

Spring tumbled into summer and Camp Chitaugua fell into a rhythm that almost made Dean forget the awful, sour gnawing in his gut. Dean was the unquestionable leader of the pack. Castiel was his second in command, because he trusted the angel beyond reproach and as a bonus, apparently Castiel had been a captain or something in heaven. And Chuck, who had never, ever been built for battle and couldn’t steady his hand enough to hold a weapon, took point on logistics. He still got his headaches, still had to write. Dean figured that was fine. This way, maybe they’d know about their final battle before they went in to fight it.

Dean and Cas led small groups of three or four on rescue missions when they got wind of croats popping up, and it was simple: Kill the infected. Save who you can. But we can’t save everyone.

Dean knew that better than anyone.

In July, Dean parked Baby for the last time. Gasoline was becoming astronomically expensive; they had to start rationing. Besides, she wasn’t any good for missions and was so well-recognized by now that the enemy saw them coming. He pulled her just off the camp grounds, where the weeds would grow up around to hide and preserve her. “It’s, uh. It’s been a good run for us, huh?” He kissed the fingers of his right hand and pressed them reverently against her hood. “Bye, Baby.”

He turned, content to stop fighting the tears and let a few fall in private, when he heard a twig snap to his left. He whipped toward the sound, drawing the knife out of its holster on his right hip. “Who’s there?”

“Knock knock! Oh, wait.” And then a fit of giggles from the other side of a large tree, and Castiel peeked around the broad trunk, uncharacteristically jolly. “That goes… I did that wrong.”

“Oh God dammit Cas.” Dean stomped toward his friend, still tightly fisting his knife in his right hand. “What are you doing out here?” He stopped when he was standing over the angel-man, who appeared completely relaxed - legs kicked out in front of his body and feet crossed at the ankle; hands knitted loosely together in his lap; eyes sparkling with-- Well, fuck. “What the hell did you do.” It’s a statement, not a question, but then, it has just about as much inflection as Dean puts into anything these days, question or not.

Angel-man’s response was a too-loud, too-short chuckle. “I found God…”

“No, what the fuck, Cas, what the  _ actual  _ fuck? Cannibas? Shrooms? What?”

“No idea. BUT, let me tell you Dean, I feel like, you know what, this is how I can do this Human thing, I think. I mean. I was worried about it for awhile, but like this, I can think sooooo faaaaar and deeeeeep… Hey. Did you ever think. Dean. OK. Let’s play a game.”

“...What?” Finally, inflection, because he’s incredulous enough that it warrants intonation of surprise.

“Did you ever. Think. That  _ maybe _ Humanity is a metaphor for the whole universe. That maybe God made the whole universe, right? But he needed something on a smaller scale. So he left the universe just to float, and be, and it’s violent, but it’s peaceful and serene, and then he started that chaos just-- in a petri dish. And the same thing happened in that petri dish, Man just sort of floated along, usually at peace, but sometimes violence, and this, right here, is our asteroid that’s going to wipe out the planet - but then it’ll be so peaceful again, Dean. So peaceful. And it’ll start to rebuild itself bit by bit by bit…” His voice trailed off with each “bit” until he was silent, lips moving with no sound coming out, and staring up at Dean with the most hopeful expression Dean had seen on anyone’s face in months.

“Cas. Buddy. Look--”

That’s when the angel-man kissed him. It was a hard press of mouth-to-mouth, closed lips, and ended with a comical smacking sound. When they parted, Castiel was smiling. He still had the glint in his eyes of unmistakable high, but he looked calm. Satisfied. “I never knew how to tell you before,” he said, quieter than the insane ramble that had preceded the kiss. “As a Human, at first, I felt trapped inside my own head. So… helpless, and more distant from you than I’d ever been as an angel. The world just felt so big and bad without my grace, but Dean, when I think about it like that, just God’s little petri dish of life… it makes so much more sense. Thank you. Thank you for that.”

Dean’s lips still tingled from the kiss, and he found his hand absently making its way up to rest two fingers against the tingle. It certainly wasn’t the best kiss he’d ever gotten, but it had stopped his whole shit-spiraling world for ten seconds, and that was saying something. He cleared his throat, but the fingers stayed up by his face. “What-- what makes so much sense, Cas?”

“I miss you.” Suddenly, Castiel was more tense, pulling his legs up to hug at his chest with rigid arms. “Miss the bond we used to have.”

“Me too.” The words were out before Dean could stop them.

They were both quiet then - staring out across the grassy expanse that flanks Camp Chitaugua. It was a good couple of minutes of strangely comfortable silence, and Cas was the one to break it it. “What were you doing out here?”

Dean shrugged, sniffled back tears. “I uh. Buried Baby today.”

“It was never supposed to be like this, Dean.”

“Oh, I know it, Cas.” He turned his head there was the angel-man, but he was coming off his high and he had facial hair now, more man than angel, but just as beautiful as--

“Even as a Human, I can feel you staring at me.”

“Sorry.” He looked away quickly.

“I didn’t say I minded.”

They turned their heads in time with one another, and their eyes met - the steely blue Castiel brought down from Heaven no longer lit with angel fire, but tinged with emotion, and that was better, Dean thought. So much better. So he just let himself stare, because he wasn’t sure when the last time was he really looked at Castiel - when the angel became an angel-man, and maybe now, maybe now he was more man than angel. They had been together every day since October, but Dean had missed it - the transformation. And yet.

“Dean?”

The voice jerked him from his reverie; not gravelly, like the angel used to talk, but open and free and maybe uncertain but then… that’s Human life, isn’t it? Dean spoke with that voice all the time. “Cas.”

“What are you…?”

“Say my name again.”

“Dean.”

“Again.”

“Dean.” Their faces were almost-but-not-quite touching, so close that Dean could feel Cas’s tiny exhales against his own lips; so close that when he darted out his tongue to lick his own lips, the tongue brushed against Cas’s lower lip.

“Cas.” He closed the gap, but this kiss was so different from when Cas had jumped him. It was soft, reserved, growing deeper with open mouths, and Dean could taste the remnants of marijuana inside Cas’s mouth, but he couldn’t bring himself to care. It was the most perfect kiss Dean had ever had, at least that he can remember, and for the next seconds and minutes there was just him and Castiel, the man who was an angel, making out under a tree in a field. For just that time, the burden they would carry until the end of the world was lifted.

“Oh-- Ohhhh my. So sorry. Um.”

That was not Castiel.

That was Chuck. Dean pulled away and made a grimace into Castiel’s face. “Wait, wait. What is it, Proph?” Because everyone needed a nickname, and Chuck was, after all, still a prophet of the Lord.

“Um. Yeah! Just that there’s been a new outbreak in Iowa, the news is reporting, uh, a rash of murders, strange lootings, the usual signs. Wasn’t sure if you’d want… to maybe… send a team? Or, uh, something?” When Dean looked up at Chuck, the prophet’s hands were up in defense and he was slowly pacing away from Dean and Cas as though he thought he might get beaten to a pulp for the interruption.

“Yeah. Yes. I’m-- Come on, Cas.” Dean stood, and helped Cas to his feet. “Not a word,” he grumbled as he took long strides to be toe-to-toe with Chuck.

“Wouldn’t dream of it, sir.”

***

July rolled into August, and August into September. Autumn fell on Chitaugua, painting the oaks and maples gorgeous shades of gold and red and yellow. Their army grew to 20, then 30, then shrank and grew and shrank and grew as members were infected on battle and rescue and supply runs. Each time Dean put a bullet in the skull of someone who’d once been a rescue, he died a little more on the inside.

But the nights when he and Castiel were both at base camp, both at Chitaugua and not out trying to save a dying world, those were the best nights. Those were the nights when Dean didn’t drink and Cas didn’t get high. Those were the nights they laid together in Dean’s cabin, curled into one another’s warmth.

“I need to teach you how to shoot, Cas,” Dean intoned regretfully one night as he traced patterns on Castiel’s chest with the tip of his index finger. Remarkable, really - Dean knew that this body used to have a different mind and a different name, but Castiel as an angel had healed every single blemish on the skin. It was smooth and perfect, not a single scar or birthmark, and Dean wanted to memorize every single millimeter of it before the battle of the endtimes beat it all up again.

Castiel was flat on his back, with Dean on his belly on top of him, both of them stripped to the waist. At Dean’s words, Cas’s eyes rolled to the ceiling. “It was inevitable, I suppose.”

“I need you to know how to protect yourself. It’s getting worse instead of better a whole lot faster every day, and one day their army’s gonna be bigger than ours, and then they’re gonna start coming for us. Cas, I can’t… I can’t bear to think… you’re all I have left.”

Cas sighed, resigned. “Tomorrow.” And Dean agreed with a barely noticeable nod. Then he moved up just enough to nuzzle his nose against Castiel’s, nudging twice before going in to capture his lips in a kiss. Cas parted his lips willingly for Dean’s tongue.

“Hmmm…”

Dean pulled back at the contented sound and smiled down at his partner. “What ‘hmmm’?”

“I was just thinking…”

“Well if you can still think straight, clearly I need to kiss you better.”

Cas chuckled and accepted a few swipes of Dean’s tongue before pulling back. “No… this is important. I was thinking… I know so much. About man, about Earth, about… life. As an angel, I just knew  _ so much _ . But I never… this, right here. You taught me how to do this.”

“Make out? Pleasure’s all mine.”

“No.” For the first time in months, a truly contented sigh escaped Castiel. “Love. Not-- not godly love or angelic love or even brotherly love. I knew all that. You taught me romantic love.”

“At the end of the world, no less. You know, Cas… if we’re running short on time, maybe I ought to speed up the lesson.” He claimed Castiel’s mouth again before the man beneath him could reflect another word, swallowing breath and bottling up love and releasing every emotion he’d ever dared to feel into Castiel. Castiel. “Cas…”

“Dean.”

“Let me?” His hands began to roam below the waist, into uncharted territory for the two of them.

“Please.”

***

They talked about leaving Chitaugua and heading south in search of warmer weather, but in the end, the democratic vote leaned hard against relocation: Cold as it was, Chitaugua was established and safe, and there was no way of knowing if they could resettle in such comfort elsewhere.

So they stayed.

The thing about those early days - 2010, even most of 2011 - they still had some luxuries. Electrical power, running water, grocery stores a day or two out that sold fresh produce. Television and radio kept them abreast of most of Croatoan’s progress through the nation and the world. And so that first winter, at least they had heat.

Something else, too: As the weather turned cold and snow began to fall, Team Free Will still knew how to have a just a little bit of fun. The calendar marked two weeks before Christmas, and Dean stood back on the porch of his cabin, sipping terrible coffee and watching Castiel frolick - Lord, he actually was  _ frolicking _ , playing carelessly with a group of small children - in the snow. More snow was coming down to add to the few inches they already had, and Dean knew he should go in search of Chuck, make sure they had enough shovels and maybe even a few snow plows to keep themselves dug out in the event of a croat invasion to the camp… but he couldn’t break away. Not yet.

“Dean! Head’s up!”

A snowball snapped him out of his reverie, hitting him just left of center in the chest and leaking into his coffee. He looked down at himself and then up at his lover with mock offense in his features - but he could only hold the expression for so long. Then he put down his coffee and vaulted the porch, taking off after Cas and the children.

He did eventually make it to Chuck’s cabin, red-faced from the cold and covered in snow at various stages of melting, and the prophet was bemused. “Dean. You’re-- smiling.”

“Yeah, I guess I am. I’m here to make sure we can dig ourselves out of this mess with something more than our hands.” He stepped inside at Chuck’s silent invitation. “I-- where in the world did you get Christmas tree lights?”

Chuck shrugged helplessly. “Call it something I wasn’t quite ready to let go of yet. Who knows, this might be… this might be our last Christmas. Might as well try to make it a good one, right?”

“Sure.” Dean slowly took in the single string of lights - multicolored, circling Chuck’s single window. It wasn’t much, but it lit up the whole place. An idea started to dawn in Dean’s mind. “You, uh. You got any more?”

Chuck positively lit up like a Christmas tree at Dean’s question. “Three more strings. Not much, like I said, but uh. We could spare the cash and I just figured…”

Dean put on his inquisitive face, tilting his head and pointing toward the strings of lights in Chuck’s hands. “Can I… borrow some?”

“Absolutely.”

“Great. Thanks.” He was rushing out the door, one foot already on the porch when he leaned back in and pointed at Chuck, remembering why he’d come in the first place. “Snow plows?”

“We have two. They run on gasoline, so they might not get us through the winter, but they’ll get us through this storm.”

“All right. Devil we know first of all, huh?” He heard Chuck laugh softly at the remark but was too caught up in his thoughts to recognize his own pun. He crossed the camp quickly to his own cabin and ducked inside.

Castiel was there, dressed in a warm sweater and pouring over an ancient cookbook they’d found in the camp’s cafeteria when they’d first arrived. His brow was creased so severely that it made Dean laugh all over again. “You know, you do that for too long and your face’ll stay that way,” he warned, setting the string of lights down on a chair and crossing the room to stand beside Cas. At his shoulder, Dean could see that his lover had made an absolute mess of the very small kitchen. Flour appeared to be the primary culprit, but Dean also noticed sugar granules in little piles, and speckles of water and -- “You got eggs? Real eggs, chicken eggs.”

“Hmmm? Oh. Yeah.”

“And you just said ‘yeah.’”

“Mmmhmmmm.”

Dean shook his head. “How the hell’d you get eggs?”

Cas stopped then - put down his whisk, brushed his hands on well-worn jeans and said, deadpan, “From a chicken.” He stayed that way as long as he could - a few seconds - before dissolving into a fit of giggles.

“You’re on something.”

Cas just chuckled and continued his baking task. “Opiates are a- _ maaaz _ -ing!” he sang.

Dean sighed and raked rough fingers through his own hair. Then he laughed - and then harder - and harder still. “Awww hell. Fuck it all to Hell Cas, huh? Literally. You know, I-- I care about you. Always have, since-- since practically Act 1, Scene 1, I mean. Hell, Cas, you scared the bejeezus out of me those first few times but I always…” He softened, turning wet eyes on his partner. “Deep down I always knew you cared about me, and I cared about you right back. And now here we are. End of the world. And much as I wanna lecture you about your little habit, I won't.”

“Good.”

“But I need you, Cas. I got no one else and I love you and I. Need. You. So.” He walked back and put his hands on Castiel's shoulders and stared at him one long, hard moment before pulling him into a fierce kiss and holding him there until both of them were long past out of breath. Then gasping, he pulled back. “Are we clear?”

“Yes. Dean?”

“Hmmm?”

“I need to vomit.”

***

Cas had indeed gotten real chicken eggs from a real chicken. There was apparently a group of wild hens that lived in the woods about a half-mile from Camp Chitaugua; Castiel had stumbled upon them on a walk one day and even though he wasn’t an angel anymore, he still had an unmatched connection with nature and a profound gentleness with animals. He’d fed them from his hand, he told Dean, and then harvested a dozen eggs.

He’d found the opiates not far away and harvested those on the same trip, and then set about making cookies while Dean visited Chuck. He’d really only indulged in his other find about 20 minutes before Dean’s return.

The story made Dean shake his head, but he made love to Cas that night anyway, because he wanted to, and Cas was sober by then, and he needed to be close to this man that he loved.

The next day, Dean went out into the same woods. He didn’t see any chickens and he didn’t harvest any drugs, but he did find a tree.

It wasn’t much, but it met the requirements - a 4-foot-tall evergreen, with a small enough trunk that Dean could cut it down by himself with a hatchet. He dragged the freshly cut tree back to camp, huffing and puffing and breaking out into a sweat that made him shiver every time the wind blew. As he reached camp, a few of the smaller children recognized his mission for what it was and started following him and the tree like he was the fucking Pied Piper, but when they got to his cabin, he was grateful for their help. He rigged the tree to stay upright with a few lengths of rope and nails in the wall, and while he wound the string of lights through its branches, the children went out and found him what other decorations they could: A few pine cones, winter berries; one young girl sheepishly handed him a doll to put on top of the tree. When he accepted the offer, she smiled so bright Dean felt a part of the hardness he’d built up inside melt to a puddle of emotion.

When it was done, he stood back with the children and looked at their tree.

It was, Dean was certain, the most beautiful Christmas tree he had ever seen.

He shooed them out of the cabin then, because Cas would be back from his mission by dinner time and they had promised to try again with the cookies, and Dean still had one more thing he had to scavenge for.

He traded a member of their army - a woman who probably used to be some sort of hippie, who’d brought a whole bunch of costume jewelry with her - a week’s worth of bread for it. “Thank you.” He wanted to cry.

She just said, “Pleasure doing business,” and smiled.

Right.

But it didn’t matter.

Castiel was at Dean’s cabin by the time he returned, already bent back over that tattered old cookbook, brow creased as he studied the recipe. “We don’t have butter,” he said by way of greeting, and Dean’s face split into an adoring smile, “But I rendered some fat from a duck. Should work.”

Dean didn’t reply right away; just stood back to watch Cas, to take in the whole of him. When he did speak, it was an emotional, “How did you learn to cook?”

“I think Jimmy Novak left a few memories in my noggin.” Cas finally looked up, matching Dean’s smile. “Welcome home, Dean.”

“Home.” Yeah, this was home. Not because it was where he lived, but because Cas was here, and that meant love was here. His family was here. “Yeah, it is. Can I help?”

Cas consulted the book again and pointed to an empty counter space at his right. “Crack four eggs. Then I need two cups of sugar.”

And so they busied themselves, Cas taking the lead on the project, and Dean was happy to let him do that because it seemed to give his lover a natural high, and Dean was all about natural over synthetic when it came to that, as often as he could. A thought occurred to him as he looked out at the tree and back at Castiel. “Hey, Cas?”

“Yes?”

That’s better, Dean thought. “Were you there at the first Christmas? The big first, I mean. Jesus, Bethlehem, the whole nine. Were you there?”

Cas laughed and looked at him sidelong while he rolled out their dough as thin as he could manage. “Sure, I was there. The Bible talks about  _ a whole company of the heavenly host…  _ I was part of that. Just one more angel in the choir, a voice among thousands, but I was there. The archangels - Gabriel, in particular - they took point on that. It was a pretty big deal.”

“I imagine.”

“You know the Christmas tree is a pagan symbol, right?”

“Do you care?” Dean raised an eyebrow, trying to keep his poker face - if he’d offended Castiel, the whole night was ruined.

“No.” And Dean knew he breathed a sigh of relief at that, but he didn’t care. “It’s beautiful, Dean. Thank you.”

As Cas stepped away from their work area and moved toward the tree to examine it up close, Dean seized his opportunity. He moved over to where Cas had been rolling out the dough - now just a big spot of flour - and used his finger to write something in the remnants.

Then he walked forward to join Castiel in front of the tree. “You’re beautiful,” he murmured, tipping Cas’s chin up so he could kiss him properly. “You know, if it were any sort of real Christmas, I’d have some mistletoe to kiss you under.”

“I think we’re a bit past needing that.” Cas stole his own kiss then before moving away from Dean, back toward the leftovers from their cookie making experiment. Dean cleared his throat and stayed by the tree, one hand coming up to rub nervously at his mouth while the other fuddled into his pocket in search of his treasure.

He knew when he heard the gasp that he should turn around. And there was Castiel, looking down at the message, then back at Dean, then down at the message, and back at Dean again. “I…”

“I never thought I’d do this, not in a million years, not with anybody. And then the world started coming to an end and I thought, well, now I’m definitely not going to see any sort of happiness ever again. And then you… Cas, you proved me wrong. You make me happy. And I can have this. We can have this. If only for a little while.” He was on the verge of tears, but he got to one knee because if he was going to propose, he was going to do it properly, and he gave Castiel his most hopeful expression. “Marry me, Cas?”

Castiel’s reply wasn’t so much a yes as it was a consummation - He threw himself at Dean, swallowing any more words with a languishing kiss, deeper and deeper and joining him on the floor.

“So, yes?”

“For whatever time we have left. Yes, Dean. Yes.”

They dissolved into a weepy pile of limbs and kisses, their baking project forgotten. Somehow, Dean got the ring onto Castiel’s finger in the midst of it, and there were giggles and gasps and --

“What are you laughing at?”

“I just remembered.” Dean looked up from where he had Castiel pinned against the old wooden floor, eyes moving toward where they’d successfully made a small amount of cookie dough to be shaped and baked… except. “We don’t have an oven.”

They were both laughing then, into each other, as they rolled about the floor, kissing wherever their lips landed on one another, slowly moving toward a shedding of clothes. “Does it matter?”

“Tonight? No. Not at all.”

"Merry Christmas, Dean Winchester."

"Merry Christmas, Castiel." Dean paused in thought, tasting his next words. "Castiel Winchester."

"I like it."

"Me too, Cas. Me too."


End file.
